Monstrous Urges: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

The reason people tell you to never pull at a string is that once you start, there’s no going back. Until finally, you’ve pulled so much that the whole sweater comes unraveled.

And yet, it’s so hard to see a little string and not want to pull it.

A week after the gala in Moscow, it feels like I’m at a weird crossroads.

On the one hand, I’ve slowly started to accept who I am. Even though “who I am” is complicated. Because I’m starting to believe I’m two different people.

One is the woman I’ve known for fifteen years. Her name is Taylor. She loves the few close friends she has, working out, Van Morrison, and trashy reality TV. She’s also a complete workaholic, is married to her job, doesn’t know what a work-life balance even looks like, and is fine with all of that. She’s more than fine. She thrives on it.

She’s built a career and an empire, and if that came at the expense of a house in the burbs with a doting husband, two point five children, a dog and a minivan, so be it.

She’s great with that choice.

Then there’s the other “me”. The girl I forgot fifteen years ago. Her name is Annika. Her family is, or was, Serbian mafia. I don’t know what sort of music she liked, or what she did for fun, or if she ever watched reality television.

She married out of duty. Then she participated in a horrible, loathsome event. The only thing keeping me from tearing my own soul out with guilt and horror there is that I don’t remember it, or my motive for being part of it.

And that’s it. That’s all I know. Or all I knew, and I was having an interesting enough time trying to juggle and handle both those realities and selves. But then Moscow happened, and I met Kenzo.

Suddenly, the balance is all shaken up again.

“Answers to all the things you can’t explain, Ms. Crown. The gaps in your memory. The things you do when you’re asleep. The question that I think deep down, you’ve already figured out.”

“I’m not her.”

“There’s another you out there.”

I’ve been wondering why my great-aunt Florence would tell me my name is Taylor when the everyone I’ve met since crashing into Drazen’s world knows me as Annika. But I’ve looked into my family time and time again over the years, using every resource I could to dig as deep as possible. But the same questions forever remain unanswered, because of who my parents were. Well, who I thought they were.

Florence always told me in a hushed tone, as if worried someone was listening, that they worked for the CIA. That accounted for the huge amount of money they left me, and the total black hole that their pasts were. Whenever I dug into Paul and Lea Crown, I never found anything.

No other living family, either. Great-Aunt Florence was the last of them.

But after fighting my way back from the blackness and relearning who I was and how to navigate the world, I chose to look forward. I chose to see the accident that took my memories as a marker, separating the two parts of my life. And after relearning all that I know now about the “other” part of me I forgot, I was starting to make peace with the two parts of my life: the “before” Annika and the “after” Taylor.

Now I’m not so sure about any of it. I’m not sure I even AM Annika.

But if that’s the case…who the fuck am I?

A knock on my bedroom door yanks me out of my thoughts and I turn to see Drazen standing in the doorway. It’s funny: I’ve been here a month now, and this is still “my” room, just like he sleeps in “his” room.

He’s chased me around the house. He’s tied me to his bed or mine. He’s spanked me, fucked me, come in and on me, and made me scream for more as he pushes me past every blurry black line I have and into every depraved fantasy I’ve ever had.

But we’ve never once spent the night together.

I’m not sure if I’m complaining about that, but it’s something I’m more and more aware of as time goes on.

“Yes?” I glance over at him.

“Dinnertime,” Drazen growls.

Yeah, he won’t sleep with me or spend the night in a bed with me. But he’ll still demand that I eat dinner with him every night.

Okay, maybe I am complaining about the sleeping arrangements.

“Not hungry,” I shrug, looking away.

“And I wasn’t asking. It’s dinnertime. Come and sit with me, even if you just stare at your food.”

I roll my eyes and whirl back to glare at him. “I’m really not in the mood to have orders barked at me, okay?”

I turn my back to him and pick up the Crown and Black work file I’ve been reading. Suddenly, I feel and hear him storming across my room.

“What—hey!”

I squeal when Drazen grabs me roughly, picking me up as if I’m weightless and throwing me over his fucking shoulder.

“What the shit!” I scream, slamming my fists into his broad chest. “The fuck are you doing!?”

“You said you weren’t in the mood for barked orders. So I’m not barking.”

He ignores my swats and hits as he marches out of my room with me over his shoulder, stomach-down, his arm wrapped around my middle.

“But you will come eat with me.”

“Fucking psychopath,” I hiss.

I jolt as he reaches up with his other hand, yanks my skirt up over my hips, and swats my ass. I yelp, squealing as I squirm against his shoulder.

“Stop it! Stop—ugh.”

I bite my lip when he spanks me again, sending a flaming pulse through my core and a needy ache throbbing between my legs.

His palm spanks my ass again, this time staying where it lands to massage and knead the burning skin. His finger curls under the back of my thong and he tugs, making my eyes flutter shut as the friction of lace on my clit sends explosions through my nerve endings.

We step outside onto one of the many verandas overlooking the ocean. This one acts as an outdoor dining room, with a small table, hanging cascading flowers, and torches. Dinner is laid out, and for a minute when he grabs me off his shoulder, I think he’s going to plop me down and force feed me.

But that’s not what happens.

At. All.

I gasp as he sets me on my feet facing the table and then roughly shoves me forward over it. My pulse spikes, my lungs choking off my breath as I moan. Drazen growls as he grabs the back of one of my knees, shoving it onto the table before he yanks up my skirt and rips my panties to the side.

“You made me late for dinner, little slut,” he rasps into my ear. I cry out as I feel two of his fingers run up and down my lips before he rams them into me. My moans echo through the night and out over the black ocean as he curls his fingers deep and strokes them against my g-spot.

“And now,” he hisses, biting my ear and my neck madly, like a rabid animal, “I’m fucking starving.”

He drops to his knees behind me, slaps my ass, shove my leg up higher, and then sears his mouth between my thighs from behind.

Sweet fucking God.

I cry out, a deep, husky, shuddering moan I barely even recognize as my voice ripping from my mouth. His tongue plunges into me, fucking me deeply with it. My eyes roll back and my fingers claw at the table as Drazen’s tongue drives in and out before curling around my clit.

He wraps his tongue around my swollen bud, sucking as his tongue teases in slow, deliberate circles. His tongue drags back and forth, tingling over my clit and then diving down to part my lips and push into me.

He teases his tongue back even further. My eyes widen and flutter as they roll back, and another guttural, primal moan rips from my chest as his tongue dances over my asshole.

“Fuck,” I whimper as the tip of his tongue pushes past my tight ring. “Oh fuck….”

I yelp as he spanks me, my asshole spasming around his tongue.

“Such a filthy little fuck toy,” he growls against my skin. “Reach back,” he commands. “Reach back and spread yourself wide for me, my little whore.”

Dirty slut.

Fuck toy.

Cumslut.

Little whore.

I’ve had dark desires about the chasing, and the primal kink, and the consensual non-consent for years. I’ve fantasied about being held down or tied up and forced. And sure, telling me “good girl” has always pushed my buttons.

But it wasn’t until Drazen that I realized how fucking hot those filthy, demeaning, fucked-up things he calls me are. I think, too, that those words coming from anyone else’s mouth would instantly put my vagina in shut-down mode. I mean, I think of Steven calling me his “good little cumslut” and I want to gag.

Drazen says it, and I want to gag on his cock.

I want to demean myself for him. I want to show him exactly how fucking dirty and filthy and slutty I can be for him.

So when I reach back, I moan loudly as I grab my ass and spread my ass cheeks lewdly apart for him. I cry out, begging for more when he tongues my asshole deeply and then pushes his finger into my back hole.

I scream in pleasure when his mouth finds my clit again, his tongue dancing over the throbbing nub as his fingers plunge in and out of both of my holes, until my thighs are shaking and the leg I’m standing on threatens to give out.

He sucks harder on my clit, his fingers pumping in and out and stroking against places inside me that make me want to explode.

Then, suddenly, I do.

I’ve never been “a screamer”. I’m the girl that bites her pillow or covers her mouth, or just keeps it tightly shut.

Well, I was that girl. But not anymore.

And when I come, the scream that rips from my throat echoes through the night. My face scrunches up against the tablecloth, heedless of the spilled wine and scattered cutlery as my fingers dig into my ass cheeks and Drazen’s mouth and hands drive me into oblivion.

I’m still shaking when he moves away from me. I slip from the edge of the table, trembling and whimpering as I sink to my knees.

He’s not done with me.

Drazen groans as he grabs a fistful of my hair, twisting my head around. His cock is out and huge—red and swollen, bulging with veins. His hand is pumping his fat girth, squeezing as it slides wetly up and down the precum-slicked shaft.

“Open your mouth,” he groans. “There’s a good girl.”

I whimper as I turn to face him on my knees, my mouth open and my tongue out.

“I get so fucking hard tasting your pretty little pussy,” he growls, pumping his fist roughly up and down his swollen dick. “So now you’re gonna make me come, my little cumslut.”

My skin tingles. My nipples tighten and throb as I reach up to cup his heavy balls. My eyes lock with his as every filthy, slutty, dirty instinct he brings out in me comes roaring to the surface.

“Please give me your cum, daddy.”

Drazen’s jaw clenches tight. The vein on his forehead throbs and his eyes blaze with raw lust as his cock bulges hard and thick.

He chokes out a rough, deep, masculine groan as the hot white cum sprays from his swollen head. I moan as it splatters onto me, thick ropes of it landing across my cheeks and my mouth, dripping down my chin onto my shirt.

I shiver in the ensuing silence as his piercing eyes lock with mine. A small smile curls deviously at the corners of his mouth.

“Good girl”.

Holy fuck.

I feel my face burning as I slowly get to my shaky feet. I reach for a napkin on the wrecked dinner table. But Drazen stops me, his hand grabbing mine and pulling it away. He spins me around, and my breath stutters as he cups my face and looks down into my eyes.

Suddenly, he’s kissing me, hard.

His tongue tangles with mine, swirling his cum across my lips as I fucking melt against him.

When he pulls away, his eyes are still locked on mine.

“Leave the rest where it is,” he growls. “I want to see my cum on your pretty face while we have our meal.”

Yep, I’ve officially gone off the deep end into Drazenland. Which is basically the insanity and danger of Willy fucking Wonka’s bizarro factory, but with less everlasting gobstoppers and oompa loompas and more sexual experiences that fling me miles past anything I’ve ever even dreamed of.

I am not complaining.

After dinner, and after Drazen kisses me goodnight…again…I head back to my room to shower and get ready for bed. When I step out of the bathroom later, wrapped in a towel, I frown when my gaze lands on my bed.

Or rather, the box sitting on it.

Curiosity simmers in my veins as I sit on the edge of the bed with the box on my lap and open it. Instantly, my hand flies to my mouth, my eyes brimming with tears as they widen.

Oh my God…

The box is filled with photographs.

Of me.

Me, my mother, and my father.

Tears trickle down my cheeks, blurring my vision as I sift through the dozens of photos and stare at them in awe. Most are of just me, laughing and giggling as a small kid. Riding a bike down a huge gravel driveway with high walls and an immense iron gate at the end.

Me eating pizza.

Me drawing a picture, or on a computer. Me watching The Lion King on a huge couch or playing Goldeneye on a Nintendo 64 in what looks like a pool house.

But others include them, too.

My parents.

My dad, with his strong, tall, and broad-shouldered frame, and a black mustache that honestly suits him. He doesn’t smile much in the photos. But there’s a few with a slight grin, usually when I’m in his arms or laughing next to him.

And then there’s my mom. When I see those ones, my heart wrenches. She really does look just like me: like an older sister, not a mother. We’ve got the same hair, and the same face and eyes. Same legs, same smile.

I flip through photo after photo of her laughing on a swing with me in her arms. She and I baking cookies, or blowing out what’s clearly her birthday cake candles together.

The tears flow hot down my face, and my sobs fill my ears—so loudly that I don’t even realize he’s entered the room until I feel his thumb brush across my cheek.

I jolt, startled by his touch. When I look up at him, my heart surges as our eyes lock.

“How…” I choke. “I barely have any from…from before…”

“Your house is gone,” he growls quietly. “After…everything…it was sold and eventually torn down. Most of what was inside was sold at auction.”

He nods at the box in my hands as he kneels in front of me.

“I’ve been tracking down whatever I could. This finally arrived just now while you were showering, after I found it in an antiques shop in Dubrovnik. I know it’s not much, but I thought⁠—”

I shove the box aside and wrap my arms around him, silencing him. My face presses tightly into the crook of his neck as I crawl into his lap and his embrace, snuggling as tightly into him as I can.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome.”